


the hand that wields the blade

by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)



Category: The Borgias (Showtime TV)
Genre: Loyalty, M/M, Power Dynamics, Sexual Tension, Swordplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29438199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/pseuds/Sandrine%20Shaw
Summary: "I thought you said you were better with the knife than with the sword. You've been holding out on me."Micheletto looks unperturbed by the accusation. "I'm a fast learner, my lord."
Relationships: Cesare Borgia/Micheletto Corella
Comments: 8
Kudos: 11
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	the hand that wields the blade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ryme_intrinseca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryme_intrinseca/gifts).



> I've been out of this fandom for longer than I've ever been in it, but I wanted to write you a little something and the "swordplay as foreplay" prompt drew me in. I hope this puts a smile on your face. Happy Chocolate Box! ♥

The tip of Micheletto's sword rests at the tender hollow of Cesare's throat. 

It doesn't break the skin; Micheletto's pressing down just hard enough that Cesare has to crane his neck back to avoid getting cut. But his breath comes fast and labored, and at each exhale, he can feel the pressure of cool steel against his flesh.

"I thought you said you were better with the knife than with the sword. You've been holding out on me."

Micheletto looks unperturbed by the accusation. "I'm a fast learner, my lord."

Anyone else, Cesare would call a liar. He believes Micheletto, however – and not just because he never lied to Cesare yet in all the time since their volatile first encounter, not even when it would have served him better. During the past half hour that they've been fencing, Cesare has watched Micheletto improve faster than anyone he's ever seen, going from copying Cesare's best moves to surpassing them within less than a handful of tries. 

No one would truthfully call Cesare a patient teacher; he's too easily frustrated when a student can't keep up – a family trait, undoubtedly. Now he finds that the opposite is equally infuriating.

Baring his teeth at Micheletto, he ducks down and away from the sword. 

The blade catches him at the side of his neck. A sharp sting. Cold at first, then hot. 

He ignores it.

"Again," he demands as he picks up his sword once more, clinging to the dogged belief that he can turn the tables again.

"As you wish, my lord," Micheletto says, barely out of breath. He sounds agreeable and demure, as if he hadn't bristled like an angry alley cat and resisted when Cesare had suggested he should learn the art of fencing. 

_There is no need for it,_ he'd argued. _No sword is quicker than my dagger. I'll slice the throat of whoever comes at you before they can even make to raise their sword._

What he'd failed to understand was that Cesare hadn't intended to question Micheletto's skill with the dagger. That had never been what this was about. It was all about the teaching. The idea that he'd be the master and Micheletto would be his student held a unique thrill Cesare couldn't shake. Lucrezia would laugh and call him a show-off, and he wouldn't deny that she was right, but it went beyond that.

Of course, he couldn't have known then that the student would best the master within less than an hour.

The noises of steel hitting steel fill the air of the armory as Cesare attacks. Micheletto meets him strike for strike, so quick it almost feels like he's anticipating Cesare's moves before Cesare even thinks them.

Cesare lets out an aggravated shout and goes at him harder, only too well aware that the frustration makes him lose the level-headed precision that usually makes him such good fighter and yet unable to rein it in. He doesn't get like this in battle, not even when he's outmatched, not even on the rare occasion that an opponent temporarily has the upper hand. But none of those opponents are Micheletto.

For a while, Micheletto seems content to defend himself, letting Cesare exhaust himself with attack after fruitless attack. Then he strikes – fast, hard. Just as he does with his dagger, and – if this were a real fight instead of sparring – no less lethal.

Cesare goes down, his sword knocked from his grip and clattering to the ground. When he moves to reach for it, Micheletto's blade against his heaving chest stops him.

That's enough for today, he thinks. 

Not even his confidence is great enough to willingly endure another loss, and he's starting to understand that nothing else would be the inevitable outcome. Not unless Micheletto were to let him win – and Micheletto respects him too much and fears him too little for that. It's one of the things Cesare appreciates about him, even if sometimes, like today, he needs to remind himself that he does.

He makes himself relax under Micheletto's sword, dropping his head back against the ground as he catches his breath. "We're done."

"Very well," Micheletto says.

Cesare can feel his eyes on him, heavier than the weight of the blade. When he lifts his head to meet Micheletto's gaze, the other man looks troubled. 

"I hurt you." His eyes are fixed on Cesare's neck where Cesare felt the kiss of the blade earlier.

Cesare reaches up to touch the spot, and his palm comes away stained red. Strange – he didn't feel the wound until now, but as soon as he sees the blood, the cut prickles and smarts.

"You didn't. I cut myself," Cesare counters. 

It had been Micheletto's hand holding the sword, but the sword hadn't moved. Cesare had. It seems like an important distinction to Cesare, but it's easy to see that Micheletto doesn't care much for it. He looks ready to object, repentance haunting his expression as he sheaths his sword. 

Without the weight and the implied threat of it holding Cesare down, he's free to move, and he does, rising to his feet before Micheletto has the chance to argue. He doesn't bother getting his sword, pushing Micheletto back against the wall, his hands closing firmly around Micheletto's wrists. 

"But if you're looking to be punished, I'm willing to be generous." 

He smiles, a show of teeth.

Under his fingers, he can feel the strength of Micheletto's muscles. If Micheletto wanted to, no doubt he could shake off the grip and break Cesare's wrist within a split second. Break his neck, too, and the only thing that thrills Cesare more is the fact that Micheletto doesn't do any of that. That he lets himself be shackled by Cesare's hands as firmly as if he were put in irons. He wouldn't have let Cesare win when they were sparring, but he'll won't raise a hand against him when the stakes are real.

Micheletto's eyes are dark and wide. His throat moves as swallows, his chest rising and falling harder now than it did during the fight. 

"And would you be punishing me for cutting you, or for besting you at fencing?"

Cesare lets his fingers clamp down harder around Micheletto's wrists, well-aware that he's painting them with bruises that will bloom tomorrow for everyone to see. 

"I told you, you didn't cut me." His voice is low and soft, the warning so quiet and so sharp like a blade wrapped in satin. He's certain that Micheletto recognizes the warning, just as he's unsurprised that he doesn't heed it.

"It was my sword." 

If Cesare didn't know that Micheletto was angling for punishment, perhaps his insistence to keep arguing would make his temper rise. Perhaps he's reach for the dagger he knows Micheletto keeps hidden at the back of his breeches and bring it to Micheletto's neck, give him a matching cut. But he doesn't. He only gives Micheletto's wrists another firm squeeze, barely even a reprimand.

"Your sword belongs to me," he reminds Micheletto. "As does the hand that wields it. Does it not?" 

Close as they're standing, he can't miss Micheletto's reaction. The quickening of his breath, the flush of his cheeks, his fists emptily clenching in Cesare's hold. The way his hips buck forward, his hardness evident against Cesare's thigh.

"You know it does, my lord." 

Even in his state, Micheletto manages to make it sound like a solemn vow, reverent almost.

Cesare smiles, satisfied. "I know."

He's certain of Micheletto's loyalty. He doesn't need to reassurance. It's Micheletto who needs to hear it, now and then.

Under his fingers, he can feel Micheletto's wrist trembling, like he's holding himself so taut that his muscles are protesting. Cesare doesn't ease his grip as he leans in and kisses Micheletto's tense lips, coaxing them open until they're soft and pliant under his. 

Perhaps he has a few more things to teach Micheletto today.

End


End file.
